What Is Done In The Waiting
by Sumhope
Summary: Alice/Uncas. “She wants him to come for her, to walk through the proverbial fire, to save her. She wants him to be the Nathaniel to her Cora. She wants to live.” Alice excerpts up to the fateful cliff scene. Companion fic to 'What is Said In the Silence'
1. Chapter 1

AN: It feels like we are being hit over the head repeatedly with Nathaniel and Cora. Which is why I think the subtlety of Uncas and Alice is what appeals.

_Disclaimer:__ I make no profit off this story it is simply a way to amuse myself and anyone who is bored enough to read it._

Summary:Alice/Uncas. "She wants him to come for her, to walk through the proverbial fire, to save her. She wants him to be the Nathaniel to her Cora. She wants to live." Alice excerpts up to the fateful cliff scene. Companion fic to 'What is Said In the Silence' and although it can be read alone I suggest you go read the other first (or after).

_Warning:_Adult themes will include death, masturbation, sex, and a heavy load of angst.

* * *

"**What is Done in the Waiting"**

* * *

Alice had spent her whole life waiting.

When she was born she didn't cry like normal babes did. She lay unmoving and so still that the midwife had thought she was stillborn; dead just like her mother who had died bearing her into the world. Even without a mother to nurse her and hold her, Alice was still silent, hushed and calm.

She was always a quiet child, unlike Cora who was engaging and eager to explore anything and everything. Growing up it was always Cora who tried, and did, and acted while Alice watched. They were as different as two people could possibly be, their personalities mirrored by their outside appearances.

Cora was as dark and wild as the moors at twilight. Her hair was a contradiction of soft and hard, the curls untamed and potent. There was a strength about her beauty in the solid line of her jaw and the set of her dark eyes. Her beauty was undeniable and yet it was altogether different from Alice's. Hers was a intractable forceful type while Alice's was soft and pale.

Where Cora's hair curled and coiled Alice's hung limp, her hair the shade of the palest blonde. And while Cora's skin held a flushed rosy hue Alice was so blanched and pallid the blue of her veins traced spidery trails across her skin.

The differences between them did not end in their separate personalities and looks, but it also manifested in their physical beings as well. Cora was as healthy and hale as a horse, never once spending a day ill in her life; while Alice remembered many sickly days. She had spent those days as a child waiting indoors and abed, waiting for whatever ailed her to pass. And while she waited she would watch from the window as Cora explored the outside.

She was always watching, and always waiting, which is probably why saw him first.

She had thought he was perfect, everything he ought to be. He was everything her girlish fantasies had consisted of. He was exactly what she wanted in a man.

She wanted to draw his attention, she wanted to laugh and saunter and flirt her way across the room to where he stood. But she wasn't self assured, she was shy. And even as she shrunk further into the corner she still wanted him to turn her way. She wanted him to see her.

He didn't see her though. He looked right past the waiting girl in the corner and instead saw her sister, a fearsome creature of vibrant animated energy that filled up the room and threaten to overflow it. He saw Cora, and that was the end of that. He would not be hers.

Duncan would be Cora's.

* * *

It had finally happened.

After years of waiting as their father fought for the English crown abroad, Alice and Cora were finally to see him again. He had sent for them and they leave Portman Square and make the journey across the seas to North America.

They land in Albany, a bustling town of wide dirt roads and Dutch roofs. Even though it is colder and dustier than the home she has left behind, Alice is so enchanted by the foreignness of it all that she hardly minds. For a long time she had been waiting for this day to come.

For years Alice had dreamt of adventure. She had longed for new faces and landscapes to surround her. She had longed for new experiences with just the smallest taste of danger. Most of all she had longed for something different than the monotony that had become her life.

In Scotland the days had seemed to blend into a never ending stream of social events, each more repetitive and blurred than the last. Calls were made followed by ball invitations which were returned with more calls. It was a never ending circle and Alice was bored of it. She saw her life laid out in front of her, planned to the full, with no room for excitement or adventure. A gilded cage with no escape.

But now that they had come to the Americas she was filled with heady anticipation. Their days were spent quietly enough, exploring the town and taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Evenings were spent in the Poltroon's back garden with Duncan's exotic tales of red skinned savages to entertain and thrill their senses. And yet despite the slower pace of life Alice was certain that there was something exciting waiting just around the corner. There was a change in the air, a kind of tangible static that she could could almost taste.

Something exciting was about to happen.

Which is why, when their fathers letter came to summon them ,she was all ecstatic impatience. Cora was for once more cautious, hesitant about the journey further into the wilderness. But Alice was certain their father would not have sent for them if it were dangerous. No... Cora was all wrong... this was going to be an adventure, she was sure of it.

It was going to be wonderful!

* * *

It was not wonderful.

It was horrible, worse than anything her sleeping mind could ever dream up in the fervor of a nightmare.

The journey had started off well enough. Elegant gowns were changed for more sensible frocks of stanch muslin. Bustles were discarded along with their hoops, but their corsets stayed firmly laced. No respectable lady went without her corset no matter how deplorable the travel conditions might be.

Then horses were mounted and the town slowly faded from view. They were engulfed in trees so tall and dense that she had no notion of how far they had travelled. Their surroundings looked all the same to her, only the traveling sun gave any indication that time had passed. By the time it had reached mid-sky her back had begun to sweat underneath the stifling muslin of her dress despite the chill in the air. In front of her in the edge of her vision Cora swayed atop her horse. The sound of its footsteps was quickly lulling her to sleep. Everything was beginning to blur. Her head began to drop, her eyelids getting heavier and harder to hold up. She had just closed them, drifting somewhere between sleeping and awake... and it was then that they attacked.

Nothing in her seventeen years had prepared her for what happened next. Growing up as a gentleman officer's daughter she had heard much talk of war, of strategies and honor and glory. The reality was quite different. As the solider in front of her gives a hellish scream as an arrow lodges in his neck she thinks that there can be nothing glorious about war, about death.

Then right before her horse throws her and the air is knocked clean out of her, right before all coherent thought flees in the wake of terror; she wonders where the silly naïve girl is, the girl thought this would be a grand adventure. There was nothing grand about it.

* * *

Alice Monroe had never given much thought to how she might die.

If she had she would have liked to imagine that it would be in old age surrounded by her loved ones. The harsh reality was the greater likelihood of her dying in childbirth, as her mother before her, or even a sickness that could snatch her from this life into the next.

She never imagined she would die violently. And she certainty had never thought that she would die like this, thousands of miles away from her home with dirt and leaves crunching underneath her knees as screams of the dying fill the air. She feels exposed. Defenseless. Helpless. Hopeless.

Cora grasps her tighter and even with her nose buried in her sister collar she can still see the savages and the soldiers fight. The soldiers maintain their positions, a civilized line, as the savages hide in the trees and snake out to attack, their hellish cries filling the air. But then she wonders at how the sound of them dying, white and red men both, are indistinguishable from each other. And she wonders which is really the savage.

Then everything narrows upon where he stands, half hidden in leafy green. His eyes are black with hate and something else, something cold and hollow. Her heart thuds painfully and loudly inside her chest. Then as he raises his musket she can feel her breath still in her throat and her body tense, and she wishes she could see her mothers face or remember her fathers laugh. But there is no flashing of memories, there is only this moment. This last moment.

A shot rings out and she waits for the pain that will follow, but there is nothing. For a moment she thinks she must already be dead, and is glad there was no pain in the passing. But then she realizes the shot was not fired from him but at him, or rather where he once was. Once the smoke clears he is gone, the rest of the savages along with him.

The silence is erie in their absence and if it wasn't for the dying moans of the wounded she could almost believe it was all a product of her imagination.

And then of course there are the men. Two red and one white. Her eyes glance of the red men, they appear to be standard Indians in every way. However the white man captures her attention for he seems to be neither wholly red nor white but a strange mix of the two. His limbs are as bronze as his indian companions as is his clothing, moccasins and buckskin flap and leggings. And although his clothing and long unkempt hair screams red the aquiline shape of his nose and wide blue of his eyes betray him as white. Beside her Cora is amazed at his appearance as well.

The younger of the two Indians moves behind to the horses and unties them, setting them free, and the sound draws her attention. Without thought for propriety or boundaries she throws herself at him. His hands wrap around her arms bringing her to a halt.

"No! We need them to get out of here!" she screams at him, pounding her hands against him.

All she can think is that they will be stuck here forever without escape, that this nightmare will never end. She meets his eyes with hers and what she sees stills her.

The color is nothing extraordinary. Many people of her acquaintance had brown eyes. And even though the Indian's eyes slanted in an altogether exotic way, Duncan's eyes were the very same shade of deep brown. What she sees has nothing to do with the shape or color of his eyes but something else altogether, something beneath. There is something secret and wild, something her heart recognizes, and inside her something wakes.

Then Cora is beside her touching her side, and whatever enchantment that had hung over them is broken as he releases her arms and steps back. Duncan turns to the white man dressed like his Indian companions and demands to know why the horses were driven off. He is answered instead by the young Indian.

He speaks english as easily and smoothly as her or Cora. His voice is low and deep, the sound of it vibrating through her ears down to her toes, and something inside her jerks in response.

* * *

The one who is white and yet red introduces himself as Nathaniel and agrees to lead them to the fort where their father waits. He names the older Indian as his father, Chingachgook, and the young Indian as his brother, Uncas. She wonders at this, that a white man would live with and name as family those that are red. But even though such an arrangement is strange what is stranger is that her mind keeps repeating his name, _Uncas__ Uncas Uncas_, over and over. It is a mantra to her footsteps.

They walk on for several hours. With each step her skirts feel fuller, her feet heavier. She feels lightheaded with exhaustion. Around her the landscape is magnificent. She has never seen its like. It is fierce and untouched, wild and untamed. It stirs something inside her. Just as he, _Uncas_, stirs something inside her.

When he moves past her to join his father up ahead she cannot tear her eyes away from him. She is fascinated by the deep bronze of his skin and the band of steel around his arm and the smooth long length of his hair.

In her world long hair was inherently female. There were some men who wore their hair longer but anything past the shoulders was unheard of in polite society. Long hair was simply part of a women's dress, as essential as a skirt or corset. And in her mind it was logical to assume that long hair on a man would look just that, feminine. When Duncan had told her stories of the savages of the Americas with their loin cloths and face paint and long hair she had conjured up a sort of wild naked Amazonian she-him. But faced with the true artifact she can only shake her head at what she once thought. Despite the thin braid behind the lone earring that blends with the rest of the hair down his back, or perhaps in-spite of it, he is all raw masculinity.

But there is something more than his exotic hair and dress that has her glancing his way more often. Something that makes her watch the set of his shoulders and the way the muscles leap in his thighs when he runs on ahead. She sees the quiet strength in his hands and watches how his eyes smile at his father and brother. And when they stop for a break to rest and gnaw on tough dried meat, something about the flash of his teeth tearing through the jerky makes her mouth water and her heart thud. She is aware of these thing the way a sleeping person hearing a noise is; she knows it is there but does nothing.

As always she does nothing.

* * *

The smell of ash fills the air. It is the smell of burnt timbers of the still smoldering cabin. It is the smell of the fallen bodies, a man, women, and child. It is the smell of death.

They look peaceful lying there, as if they are only sleeping. But the dark red stains on their clothes tell a different story. She stands with Cora and Duncan in the field as the others pick through the ruins. The gentle way his fingers ghost over the boys face speak volumes of what these people must have meant to them. Something sharp and painful constricts her chest as he closes the women's eyes and she wants to cry for him, for them all.

They continue on, and each step brings her further to complete exhaustion. She is grateful for the exhaustion, it distracts her from thinking on all the death she has witnessed.

By the time night falls and they stop to make camp she is so tired she wants to scream. The chill of the air has crept through her clothing and into her bones. The skin of her feet burn with the cold and her fingertips are shriveled and shrunken with moisture. She gratefully collapses upon the damp ground and lays her head down on a pillow of fallen leaves. Her eyelids feel unbearably heavy and all to soon her eyes are closing and she is lost to sleep.

She dreams in color, explosions of reds. Deep dark and spreading. There is the red of the fallen soldiers coats. The spreading red of their blood beneath them. There is the bodies smoldering in ash, the blood soaking the woman's back. Puddles and puddles of red. The red of _his_ skin against the white of hers. And as their flesh melds into one someone is whispering... _Uncaaassssssss_. Then there is the red of her fathers beard and his voice, angry at her, yelling "Why are you here girl?"

She jerks awake gasping in blind terror. And as she blinks away the sleep from her eyes the blind terror becomes all too visible. They come gliding through the morning mist, silent deadly shapes. Shadows bringing death.

She begins to hyperventilate, her hands clawing into the wet soil beneath her. Then without warning or sound she is enveloped, grasped and pulled into something hard. A band of steel wraps around her waist and another covers her mouth. The heavy weight of a body presses upon her. Her mind blanks and her survival instincts kick in and she thrashes beneath _him_, her hands tearing at the one smothering her mouth.

There is a breath of warmth in her ear and then a voice "..._be still._.." She thinks there is something familiar about the voice, something comforting and compelling and she stills underneath his hands. "_...you must be still... I will not hurt you..._" She recognizes the low deep tone of his voice even spoken in a whisper... _U__ncas_. The realization sends her limp with relief. For a moment she had imagined death and much, much worse. In those brief moments before she knew it was him she had imagined every kind of foul, painful, intimate act being forced on her person.

Instead, knowing it is him washes a calming sense of security over her. But being in the arms of a savage red man should terrify her, not bring her comfort. Yet comfort is what she feels. Comfort and the sweet feeling of safety. She has not been embraced so tightly since she was a child. The feeling is foreign but not unpleasant. And though his weight should feel stifling and heavy instead it feels warm and easy. She relaxes into the hard planes of his chest and the rough skin of his palm against her lips.

The others back off, melting back into the forest where they came from. He releases her and his fingertips brush gently along her lips as he does. It starts a strange fluttering in her stomach. As she slides out from beneath him she already feels bereft of his warmth and weight. Sitting back on her heels their eyes meet and she can't tear hers away. Even though his face is lost in shadows there is something magnetic about his gaze that holds hers. It is a great social misstep to stare up at him so boldly. She wonders at her boldness just as she wonders at his. But out here in the wild societies rules seem much less important. His gaze leaves her mouth dry and palms trembling. It is unsettling. She finally flushes and looks away. She is glad that the darkness covers the color in her cheeks. She can't deny that his stares awaken something primal in her. His gaze never wavers from her.

After several long moments he reaches out and takes her hand. His fingers envelope hers and he tugs her back down on the ground. Lying there, with him sitting beside her, she gives into sleep. She holds fast to his hand throughout the remainder of the night.

* * *

When she wakes he is no longer next to her.

Her skirts hang heavy with dew, her feet chilled to the bone, but her left side glows with remnants of shared heat. She gets up slowly, reluctant to lose the heat from him, and goes with Cora to the river to wash before they must leave again. The river is little more than a stream, but Alice is grateful none the less.

There is no time to bathe but there is time to beat the days dirt off with their hands. It is hardly effective and Cora removes her dress first and together they shake it out the best they can. Standing in the open in any state of undress is absolutely abhorrent and certainly far beyond the realm of ladylike behavior but after all that they have seen and the distance they have travelled it hardly seems important.

Then it is Alice's turn to take off her dress. Without it she feels exposed but also lighter, as if her shoulders can breathe again. Her torso still feels stifled and constricted and without thinking her fingers have already made their way to her back and make quick work of the laces on her corset. She draws it off with a deep sigh of relief and pleasure. Her chest feels light, her lungs deliciously full with air. But the corset in her hands weighs heavy. The river beckons. She has half a mind to toss it away, watch as the river carries it away, carrying with it her exhaustion and fear, carry away all of societies rules and constrictions. If only it really was so simple.

But those rules and expectations are tied as tightly to her as the corset that laces her in. She has almost made up her mind to throw it into the river when Cora's voice halts her arm.

"Alice? What are you doing?"

"I just thought to" she motions to the water with her corset in clenched fist "it's only that there would be less to constrict us and slow us down if we..."

"If we what Alice? If we discarded out corsets into the stream? Cora clucks her tongue at Alice, shaking her head. "Silly goose! The Indians would see and surely find us then."

And of course Cora is right. Cora is always right. So she wraps herself back into the corset and as Cora begins to lace her up she vows that she will do better. With each tug and pull she vows to walk farther and longer. She is determined to be strong, to not show any weakness. She doesn't want him to think of her as weak.

They comb their fingers through each others tangled hair as best they can than join the others and continue on. Each step is as tortuous as the one before it. Her body feels sore and tired. She slips and her ankle turns underneath her and then out of nowhere he is there, grabbing her arm and steading her. She thanks him under her breath, face heating at her own clumsiness. She is disgusted by her own weakness and thinks he must be too. But she is helpless to turn that weakness into strength. For the first time she despises what she was molded to be and realizes how truly frivolous it is. She is nothing more than ornamental. Her skill at the harp and the neatness of her stitch cannot help her in this place. She has no purpose beyond aesthetic value and no practical talents to help her survive.

She is truly useless.

* * *

_Thanks to bethsaida for her words of encouragement which totally motivated me to continue this!_

_So here is part one of a two part Alice companion fic to 'What is Said in the Silence' that I had promise. I hope it lives up to any and all expectations._

_Since it is my winter break right now I'm going to do my best to get the next (and last) chapter to you guys before January._

_I really enjoyed all the reviews I got from 'What is Said in the Silence' and as always would love to hear what you guys think of this. So if anyone is willing to stroke my ego feel free to click away at that review box in the bottom left corner :-D_


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Its past the end of December and into January but here is the next chapter none the less. I ended up writing the majority of this today while watching 'Lost in Austen'. Twice. Once at work and again with my mom later. Might explain why my language seems... proper, for lack of a better word. Enjoy.

_Disclaimer:__ I make no profit off this story it is simply a way to amuse myself and anyone who is bored enough to read it._

Summary: Alice/Uncas. "She wants him to come for her, to walk through the proverbial fire, to save her. She wants him to be the Nathaniel to her Cora. She wants to live." Alice excerpts up to the fateful cliff scene. Companion fic to 'What is Said In the Silence' and although it can be read alone I suggest you go read the other first (or after).

_Warning:_Adult themes will include death, sex, and a heavy load of angst.

* * *

"**What is Done in the Waiting"**

_Part Two_

* * *

_I'm higher than high, I'm lower than deep. _

_metric-twilight galaxy_

* * *

Last Time:

"_Each step is as tortuous as the one before it. Her body feels sore and tired. She slips and her ankle turns underneath her and then out of nowhere he is there, grabbing her arm and steading her. She thanks him under her breath, face heating at her own clumsiness. She is disgusted by her own weakness and thinks he must be too. But she is helpless to turn that weakness into strength. For the first time she despises what she was molded to be and realizes how truly frivolous it is. She is nothing more than ornamental. Her skill at the harp and the neatness of her stitch cannot help her in this place. She has no purpose beyond aesthetic value and no practical talents to help her survive. _

_She is useless."_

* * *

Thunder booms in the distance heralding a storm.

She shudders to think of rain and what it will mean to her already chilled flesh. She longs for the warmth of a heated bath or hearty meal or even the simplest cup of tea, anything to drive the cold that has sunk underneath her skin.

As they reach the top of the bluff overlooking she realizes the thunder is not thunder at all but the thunder of cannons. She then wishes for a storm because she would rather rain then the fort under attack. The feeling of desperation begins to permeate, settling somewhere deep in her stomach. To have travelled all this way and to reach the place they had thought to be their safe harbor and for it to be not, it is almost more than she can stand.

Under the cover of night they navigate between enemy lines and into the stockade walls. She hardly knows how, everything seems hazy. She anticipates only the sight of her father for in his arms she will feel safe, surely? She craves that feeling of security. And soon they are inside and there he is and she runs into his arms.

"Papa, Papa!"

But the look on his face is one of shock not the joy of a father reunited with his daughters.

"Why are you here?"

He is angry, but his rage is not so much at them but for them. Because now they are trapped. Even she, young naïve and sheltered as she is, knows it.

* * *

She has exchanged her travel worn clothing for a borrowed muslin dress splattered with faded bursts of flowers throughout. She smoothes her fingers over the rough fabric and stares down at her hands.

She stands in a small room, empty with only sparse cots lining the walls, and the quaking of distant cannons striking. Cora has made her way to the infirmary and Alice will soon follow. But for this moment she stands, staring at her frail empty palms, asking herself when everything spiraled out of control. When did things get so messy?

Nothing is as it seems. And all at once it is.

In just a few short nights everything, her whole world, has been upped and shook and spun around. She feels like one of those small flecks of snow in a glass snow globe, swept every which way with no notion of what is up or down.

There is no one to catch her as she falls.

Her father is far too preoccupied to notice her distress. He is too caught up in this war, this senseless battle between French and English over a great hunk of rock and soil that belongs to neither.

She had listened moments earlier, ear pressed to the hard wood door, as Cora broke Duncan's heart, rejected his hand and threw him away. Once she would have secretly rejoiced. She would have been waiting in the sidelines, eternally waiting. She would have been there to offer him comfort. She might even have gathered enough nerve to have offered herself. But now... now everything is different. Everything has changed.

Duncan is not who she once thought he was.

When he stood in front of her father and lied, yes _lied_, about the very real danger that faced these mens families she could not stand to look at him. Something bitter and afraid and small had filled him up.

Where was the brave honorable solider she had loved for so long? Where was the kind thoughtful man she had thought she knew so well?

In his place there was a person she did not like. A person she _could_ not like.

And her sister is too swept up in Hawkeye, no longer torn between him and Duncan, to see that she desperately needs the warmth embrace of her sister. To see her... Alice, at all.

And all she can see is _him_. His image burns its way across her retinas, into her very brain.

She wants him.

The revelation is astonishing. She wants him in a way she has never before wanted a man. It is true that she had wanted Duncan, or rather the idea of him; a gallant gentleman to shower her with attention and compliments and attend to her every need. It is after all what she has been taught to want. So the revelation that she wants a red man, an Indian, is both terrifying and exhilarating.

The need of want thrums through the very core of her. She can no longer deny or lie to herself. She wants him in every way possible there is to want another person. She wants him desperately and fully, with everything inside her. Worse yet, she fears she always will.

What she wants scares her to death. She cannot comprehend herself.

She is unraveling and there is no stopping it. She is glad of one thing, that there was no mirror to gaze into. She wasn't sure she would recognize herself if there was.

* * *

She is filled to the brim with anger. Anger that stems from sharp sting of betrayal. For there sits her sister, so very closely to Uncas, arms intertwined about him. The gesture is innocent enough, the embrace being simply Cora dressing his wound, yet she still feels irrationally that it is more than what it is. Even though it is an uncharitable thought she can't help thinking that Cora always gets everything-all that she wants, while she, Alice, is left with nothing.

She knows deep down that there is nothing between them, but she is blinded by a more baser instinct, that of jealousy. It leaves no room for rational thinking

However she can not blame Cora for her own weakness. It might have very well been her with her arms around him if it was not for her ever present weakness.

Moments ago she was within the infirmary determined to be of use. But the smell of it, thick and clogging, nauseating to all of the sense; the smell of death, invades so wholly that she is left reeling in its wake. She had been shadowing Cora's footsteps, offering of herself what she could, even though the extent of her talent lay in the fetching of bandages and distribution of water. But when confronted with the bloody stump of a soldiers ruined leg and another's empty eye it is all too much.

Her stomach is still heaving in her throat as she seeks refuge from beyond the infirmary door. But the smoke filled air only serves to intensify the heaving within. After great big breaths of air, after her stomach has decided to settle back where it belongs, she finds when she looks up he is within the surgery room and being bandaged by her sister.

That is when the envy rises, creeping and green, along with the anger and jealousy, red hot and all consuming. She glares at his bent head with everything in her. It is not his fault that she feels this way, and yet it is. It has to be.

His eyes meet hers across the barren gulf between them and the sight is enough to make her forget the anger. Unconsciously her fists uncurl leaving white half moons in their wake. His eyes captivate her. She cannot look away.

Nathaniel enters and converses briefly with Uncas and Cora and what has built between them through the pull of their gaze dissipates slowly. He leaves soon after, brushing by. She stares after his retreating back, her thoughts in a whirl. Tumbling round and round.

She is loosing herself.

* * *

It is over. It is all at an end.

Their long arduous journey, the bombardment of the fort and the general unpleasantness of this wild, wild land. The knowledge should bring her comfort. Yet it does not. For some unexplainable reason it does not.

Perhaps it is because she knows that it is to be the end of their short acquaintance with those that escorted them all this way. She will not see _him_ again.

The thought is more unpleasant than she would have expected.

At the very least she has her sister back. She squeezes Cora tighter around the waist as they sit on the horse at the front of the long line of retreating soldiers. Plodding forward, ever forward.

She is just beginning to be lulled into some semblance of relaxation when the first war cry rings out shattering the quiet afternoon. From surrounding trees they come, like horrible wraiths of death and destruction. It is like some kind of nightmare, a nightmare that she has already had. A reoccurring never-ending nightmare.

She has already lived this. She has already seen the clash of redcoats against red-men. She has already heard the tortured screams of the fallen. She has already felt the claws of terror. And to experience it anew, so very acutely, is so much more than she can stand.

She finds herself thrown from the horse, the ground hard and jarring draws her from her revere long enough to stumble to where her sister has fallen.

It is all gunshots and war cries around them. The smoke from the guns pervades everything. Its thick nauseous clouds clog her nostrils and obscure the clearing. From the fog one of the Huran, face stamped with a black hand, runs at them, tomahawk drawn.

Cora grabs her wrist and pulls, and they are running, running, running. Running from one horror only to stumble upon another. For in front of them is a Huron scalping one of the soldiers. He turns toward them, eyes filled with bloodlust. Cora draws a pistol from within her skirt and shoots him square in the chest.

But Alice sees none of this. She is too riveted to the gory scene that surrounds. The blood that gushes from a Huran's ruined eye, the torn holes through his bare torso. The grunting sound a soldier makes as he is hacked at, over and over, by the wicked edge of a braves war axe. The scream torn from another as an arrow grows out of his chest. She wants to scream herself, to scratch out her own eyes. It is all too much.

Than as if she is underwater everything else falls away, disappears and she is left with only her heart beating loud in her ears and the sight of her father upon the ground. And above him stands the guide from before, the Indian responsible for their first attack. Black paint marking him from shoulders to chin. He looms over her father his mouth moving, soundless to her ears. Than he pulls his knife and kneels over her father. She wants to run to him but her feet are rooted to the ground unable to move. Her limbs are as frozen and she is immobile with terror. She can only wait, wait and watch.

Then as she watches something breaks inside, turns cold and shatters. Her heart spasms, tearing, even as her fathers heart is cut from his chest. And above he stands holding it up over his head like a trophy. She can't breathe, can't even think. There is only this moment. There is nothing before it and can be nothing after. There can only ever be this moment.

Even as a brave grasps her by the chin to face his arm raised and his knife raised...

Even as Cora launches herself on him and he turns backhanding Cora unto the ground...

Even as the brothers reach them, Nathaniel disposing of the man reaching to strike Cora, the mohican father lifting her to her feet and Uncas following up the rear...

Even as they climb into canoes and race under the cover of smog over the falls...

Even as they run below to the caves...

None of this matters. For she still only thinks, sees, _feels_ of one thing. _Her fathers body twitching as he is torn apart._ Her own chest feels torn apart. _T__he red streaming down the clenched hand._ She is frantic with sorrow. She is delirious with grief.

She will go mad.

* * *

They take shelter in the deep cold recesses of a cave beneath the rushing torrential downpour of falling water. For once she is grateful for the cold, it numbs away at her flesh and she hopes it will do the same for her soul. Inside she is crying, desperate with grief. _Her father is dead._

Nathaniel embraces Cora, holding her close as if to say it is all alright. That it is all okay. But nothing is right. She wants to scream it out, to rip her sister away and curl into her lap and pretend that she is four again and her tears are for her broken doll not her broken father. But she can hardly move. The walls press in at every side, dark and smothering. She feels stifled. She will suffocate.

Her feet carry her away. Away to nowhere. Up towards the surface, and yet the mist calls to her and she pauses to listen. She is unbearably cold. Her blood icy in her veins. She can't stop shivering. And it has nothing to do with the cold mist from the falls.

She wants to cry, to scream, to bash her head against the rocky wall until her vision bleeds red. But she cannot. The tears refuse to rise. She is numb inside, numb and cold. She feels dead already. A walking corpse.

The water beckons. She wonders what it would be like to fall, to soar down crashing. She wonders what it would be like to forget. Her feet move soundlessly to the edge and she feels a calm enter her. The mist on her face feels like tiny kisses, a call, an embrace. She sways forward...

...and is pulled back, suddenly and fiercely by _him_. His face is angry and worried, fearful. For a moment she is angry at him, why should he care?, why could he not let her find peace? But then what she might have done strikes her hard. Hysteria follows, and terror. She can see herself, awkward splayed limbs, blue face, smashed into rocks at the bottom of the falls. She can't breathe. She finds herself hyperventilating, clutching and clawing at him as panic rises suffocating.

The tears come now, filling her eyes to overflow onto her face pressed into the warm skin of his neck. So many tears. She will drown in the tears. She will drown them both.

She is sobbing now, gasping with the force of her weeping. And words spill out of her mouth to match the images in her head.

* * *

_Blackened brown hands reaching in, digging to rip and tear and cut, to bring death._

_Her father convulsing, jerking, breaking..._

_A face splattered in red, clawed hand holding a still twitching mass of flesh._

_So much red._

_A heart squeezed to nothingness._

* * *

She knows not of what she says, nor does she care. She is desperate with grief. She is desperate to feel anything other than this overwhelming anguish. She is desperate to forget.

He kisses the top of her wet head and her eyes rise to meet his. Even through the liquid clouding her eyes she can still see his face. The flare of his nostrils. The diagonal slant of high cheekbones, a slash of strength across his face. The long length of his straight nose. Smooth wide lips the same dark color of his skin like burnished copper, so unlike her own. Taken apart it is a jumble of parts so different and foreign from her own. But together it is utter perfection. Pure incomprehensible perfection.

And she feels something now. Something other than despair and overwhelming grief. She feels desire. Desire for wanting life. Desire for him. She is desperate to feel anything other than the grief, so she takes hold of the desire and lets it flood her, washing away anything else.

She lets it rise inside and something foreign and desperate and hungry is unleashed. She wants him. And she is so desperate with the wanting that it is not want at all but need. Desperate hungry need. To forget and to feel. She is deranged with need.

She presses her lips harshly against his. When he opens to her the hunger only grows. He tastes of smoke and life. Or perhaps it is herself that she tastes on him. She doesn't know. She can't tell anymore. It seems as if they have always been like this, connected. She can't remember where she starts and he ends.

It should not be perfect. She is tired and afraid and so horribly sad. It should not feel good or right or any of those things. It should not be perfect at all.

But it is.

* * *

_you should review yes you should. _

_also alert because I thought I would be able to shove everything into this chapter but I couldn't. Uncas POV proved to be more short and concise sentences which meant a shorter story (for those who have yet to read his story "What is said in the silence" you should give it a read). I've found writing Alice's POV to be a bit longer. So that means one more chapter till the end. _

_A good thing... right?_


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Hello all! This is the final chapter to my "what is..." series. What are you reading all this boring nonsense for? Scroll down and get to the good stuff!

_Disclaimer:__ I make no profit off this story it is simply a way to amuse myself and anyone who is bored enough to read it._

Summary:Alice/Uncas. "She wants him to come for her, to walk through the proverbial fire, to save her. She wants him to be the Nathaniel to her Cora. She wants to live." Alice excerpts up to the fateful cliff scene. Companion fic to 'What is Said In the Silence' and although it can be read alone I suggest you go read the other first (or after).

_Warning:_Adult themes will include death, sex, and a heavy load of angst.

* * *

"**What is Done in the Waiting"**

_Part Three_

* * *

Last time:

_And she feels something now. Something other than despair and overwhelming grief. She feels desire. Desire for wanting life. Desire for him. She is desperate to feel anything other than the grief, so she takes hold of the desire and lets it flood her, washing away anything else. _

_She lets it rise inside and something foreign and desperate and hungry is unleashed. She wants him. And she is so desperate with the wanting that it is not want at all but need. Desperate hungry need. To forget and to feel. She is deranged with need. _

_She presses her lips harshly against his. When he opens to her the hunger only grows. He tastes of smoke and life. Or perhaps it is herself that she tastes on him. She doesn't know. She can't tell anymore. It seems as if they have always been like this, connected. She can't remember where she starts and he ends. _

_It should not be perfect. She is tired and afraid and so horribly sad. It should not feel good or right or any of those things. It should not be perfect at all._

_But it is. _

* * *

She presses her lips hard into his. As if the desperate press of skin on skin can take away all of her pain. As if the force of her lips and teeth and tongue can make everything else disappear.

When he pulls back the look in his eyes speaks of confusion and the beginnings of regret.

She doesn't think she can stand it if he pulls away now, when she needs him the most. She doesn't think she could stand to be alone with only herself and the memory of her fathers still body. She _needs_ him.

"_Uncas_."

She says his name in a voice that sounds nothing like her. But she supposes she _is_ nothing like her old self. Because the old her would never beg a Indian for anything. And yet that is what she does. In that one word she begs and pleads for him to stay.

And he does.

And when his tongue tangles with hers she has never been so grateful because with his touch comes the forgetting that she craves. But she needs more than just the touch of his mouth to hers, she needs much more. She craves _him_.

She makes quick work of the laces on her own dress and then reaches for his shirt, desperate to see him. To touch him. Beneath her hands he feels like molten silk, like something dangerous but exciting at the same time. She marvels at how frail her hands feel against the coiled strength, the solidness of him. Heat scores its way through his skin and across her palms. She knows she is playing with fire and will get burned but in this moment she doesn't care. She wants more. She _needs _more.

She guides his hands to her dress and together they pull it over and off. Her fingers stroke their way across the markings on his chest, faded black on skin of bronze. His own fingers fumble along the back laces of her corset. She intertwines hers with his and together make quick work of the corset and then her chemise.

He looks at her, his eyes drinking her in, roving hungrily over every part of her. She is still covered by her sleeveless white slip and yet she feels naked. Laid bare. In all of her life she had never felt more exposed. In all of her life she had never felt more desirable. The way he looks at her makes her feel small and feminine.

He is everything she is not. The hard planes of his chest, the swell of the muscles in his arms, the stark lines of his neck. She is fascinated by the differences between them, his hardness to her softness. She is aware with every fiber in her being that she is female and he is male. Her veins thrum with it.

She can't stop touching him. Her hands are everywhere, desperate greedy hands. While he touches her with something like reverence, his hands soft and gentle, as if he's afraid she will shatter in his palms like the delicate porcelain doll he must think she is.

So it is left to her to guide his hands, to show him where and how to touch her. It is left to her to reach for him and guide him to her and fit them together. She knows that she will not shatter, not in this moment. In this moment she is desirable and beautiful, if only in his eyes. In this moment she is deliciously filled up, with lust and with him and with life. In this moment the terrible loneliness from before is gone. In this moment she is invincible. So she takes what she wants, consequences be damned.

It is all happening so fast. There is no time to linger, to explore each others bodies and learn every nuance of pleasure. There is only the desperate press of flesh on flesh.

She is afraid to stop.

She is afraid that any hesitation will make the warmth over them, the fantasy of it, the crazy lack of rational disappear. She is afraid that if they stop, if only for a moment, it will burst the warm safe bubble that makes everything, all of this, possible. So she stores all of it away, every detail. She drinks in every little sound he makes, every gasp, every foreign word in his native tongue. She wants to remember his scent, the cadence of his heartbeat, the feel of his skin, so that when reality crashes back in she still has something to hold onto.

The Alice from before would never have been so bold. The old Alice would have never touch him, taken him, loved him. But the old Alice is dead, lying on a field side by side with her dead father. This new Alice is born out of grief and blind desperation and can remember nothing of the well bred woman of before with her rules and guidelines and proper behaviors. She knows none of that. All she knows now is him beneath her and the scorching ache inside and _reaching_ for that something that has been building.

She stares down at where they connect and the sight of it catches her breath in her throat and her body tightens painfully and _o__hhh_...

She can't breathe, she can't think. She can't even remember her own name. She is floating into a vast nothingness that resonates into every beat of her heart and every molecule of her being. She rides out the shudders of release in a daze until the last shivers fade. And despite the cold and frigid mist from the falls she feels warm for the first time that she can remember.

She could feel the soft pant of his breathe in the hollow of her neck, the telltale warmth of his release. Her body feels heavy and slow, her mind struggling to catch up. Slowly things stopped spinning and begin to focus around her. Reality comes crashing in along with the shame. Crushing shame and overwhelming guilt.

She feels the tears rise to cloud her eyes and bites the inside of her cheek hard and tries desperately not to cry. But it is no use. She turns away from him so he will not see her tears fall, so he will not witness her shame. He reaches for her, pulls her close, holding her tight. It does not help. If anything the comforting embrace cause her tears to fall faster. She feels nausea burn its way up her throat. She feels violently ill, lightheaded, filled with the of stinging bile of self-disgust.

She shivers in the thrall of something so devastating, so overwhelming that her chest physically aches. Her tears slow, salty on her lips, and she feels the inevitability of it all, the hopelessness.

And there it is again, the feeling of helplessness, of utter uselessness. She is incandescent with it.

There is only desolation and despair. Then finally there is the numb that she has been craving. She lets it wash over her, she looses herself to it. Relief. She sees no other choice than to withdraw inside of herself.

She stares vacantly through him as he dresses her, her thoughts in a whirl spinning and dancing at random. He is wrapping the corset about her waist when she feels the spark of rage ignite. She stands, ripping it from his grasp, and hurls it into the falls watching as it disappears from view. Even though it is gone she does not feel lighter of freer. Instead she feels a heavy weight settle further on her chest, constricting like an iron cage. She feels the rage replaced with numb and her knees buckle beneath her.

She is so overwhelmingly _tired_.

* * *

He leaves her with the others than disappears to the surface. She is gone as well, living in some dark recess of her mind.

Too many emotions too soon have left her drained dry inside. She stares down at the wet stone floor and the ruined edge of her hem. Time escapes her. Hours or brief seconds later he crouches down beside her, Chingachgook.

His sharp eyes miss nothing and she can't help feeling like he has come to defend his sons lost honor in a bizarre alternate universe. He takes in her flushed face, disheveled clothes and hair. If she was not so swept up in herself she would have blushed underneath his scrutiny, a fallen women with a scarlet letter.

She knows what he has come to say. It is what her father would say to her if her were here. That they are from different worlds and different cultures, a kind apart. Without sense.

_Pale face squaw no good for Mohican. Fair hair make heart of Uncas weak like water._

The words themselves are so much more the harder to hear because she knows that they are true.

_Uncas must go to can-tuck-ee. Uncas must find Delaware woman and make Mohican children._

The words wound, piercing through the thick numbing fog. She knows he sees her as weak. He is right. She has always been weak. Even though the words themselves are hurtful his eyes are gentle his expression knowing. There is a great sadness about him, the last father of a dying race.

He leaves her then and she slips again into the whirling fog of her mind.

The truth was that she did not regret it. She was trying her best to feel shame at the deed but even that emotion was fleeting. Even though she had been taught her whole life that giving of her flesh outside of a marriage bed was a sin, evil in the eyes of god, she could not help feeling like it had been the most natural thing in the world. If she had the chance to do it all over again, she would do it all the same.

In truth it was the most beautiful act she had ever done, giving of herself, sharing that part of her with another person. She had never felt so close to another.

She had cried because she had already seen the end of it. There was no future that contained a life for them, together.

She had cried for her lost father and the dozens of others dead.

She had cried because she had known with overwhelming surety that she would not make it home to Scotland. She would meet her death here.

* * *

They enter with fearsome cries and faces painted in black and the wind at their heels. It smells like smoke and death. The flickering light of the dying fire makes their faces only more heinous and fierce.

The faces of monsters.

The others have leapt into the falls. To stay would mean slaughter. Chingachgook is gone. Nathaniel is gone. Uncas is _gone_.

They tie their hands and loop a rope around their necks. She lets them. To her right Cora struggles, cursing them.

It does not matter anymore.

* * *

Her wrists, bound together, grind a soundless rhythm to match her footsteps. Her feet feel heavy, weighted. She is so exhausted. The terror that swims through her veins tires her further. It is an effort to feel so much for so long. Despite herself she finds her shoulders relaxing, her lids lowering, her step slowing. It is easier to block out the uncertainty and fear and focus solely on the exhaustion. She is numbed with exhausted. She welcomes the numb.

Thick stands of trees give way to an open plane, home to a small village full of people. They gather around, herding them to the center. The heat of the bodies surrounds and smothers her, suffocating in its closeness. She wishes fiercely for the cool horizon of the falls. She listens vaguely as they decide her fate. The words mean nothing to her, she understand none of it. She can't bring herself to care, even as Nathaniel comes for Cora and she is left alone. She is far beyond caring anymore. Even Duncan's screams as he disintegrates to flames seem like something happening to someone else, away from her and outside of where she is.

As they leave the village, feet climbing higher and higher, her stomach lurches with familiar fear and something else that feels like the beginning of the end.

The taste of finality lingers, filling her mouth.

* * *

Her body is pushed and tugged along when she is too slow for their liking. Her hands left free. It angers her that she is so weak in their eyes they do not even bind her, but the anger is brief and fleeting. She would attempt escape if only she could muster the energy. They are right in their estimation, she is weak and pathetic. She stares blankly ahead at the back in front of her. Somewhere inside she registers the crunch of gravel beneath her feet and the rhythmic shift of bare shoulder blades in front. But it is all overwhelmed by the numb that blankets her.

Up ahead their leader sulks, like a child deprived of a trinket. Underneath the numb she is fiercely glad that Cora is no longer beside her, even though it means she is alone. Unbidden the image of him plays across her vision. She wants him to come for her, to walk through the proverbial fire, to save her. She wants him to be the Nathaniel to her Cora. She wants to live.

As they reach the top of the climb, a narrow path upon a sheer edge, somethings shifts in the air surrounding, something so subtle and slight she almost ignores. But the feeling remains, pulsing and pushing at her. Something is about to happen. This is the moment when everything will change.

A gunshot rings out, then a shout, a scream, and from around the bend he comes. The elation she feels swiftly dies as she realizes that he is alone. There are too many. She now hates herself for her wish for rescue. She does not want anyone to die for her. Somehow he fights his way up to her. His eyes meet hers, dark and full of promises, and she wants to tell him to leave her, that she is not worth dying for. But the words refuse to come.

Beside her the leader draws his blade, eager lust painted across his face. Then everything happens far too fast. Their limbs tangle in a deadly dance of steel and skin. She has _never _been so afraid. Or helpless. Or without.

They grapple on the edge, a seasoned warrior and the son of the last of the mohicans. She is conscious then of his youth, he can hardly be much older than her. She wants to cry out at the unfairness of it all, but her throat feels raw and dry and robbed of her voice.

Their movements are fluid, a beautiful deadly waltz. Then, with a a move so quick her eyes cannot follow it, he is brought to his knees. Inside she is screaming, crying hysterically. Outwardly she is frozen. And she knows, this is what everything has been building toward. This is the moment.

_His _face is expressionless, an empty void where emotion should exist. He holds him, her... _her what?, lover? would-be-savior?_ by the throat. Sunlight glints off where the line of the blade touches skin. Time slows down abruptly and she can count the drops of sweat on his brow and the angry lines around his mouth. His eyes tell stories of vengeance and revenge. Everything seems brighter and fuller, the air thicker and heavier. Then, as she sees the subtle twist of his hand on the handle, time roars back alive.

There is a burning, tearing, tingling sensation streaking down her legs that has her knees buckling as if it was her flesh under the knife. Then all she sees is the blood that follows, so much red. All she can see is _him_... choking, gasping, dying.

There is a strange roaring in her ears that drowns out even the thick tremor of her heartbeat. She wants to close her eyes, to press her fists so tightly to them that all she will see are dancing spots. But something compels her to keep them open, watching. The same compulsion has her stepping forward to watch as he sails over the edge. The sight of him soaring downwards, his body melding against the rocks, stills something inside her. She is suddenly and inexplicably collected, composed and serene. All the fear, hate, sorrow of before has fled leaving a calm center. An overwhelming clarity fills her to the brim. Her toes tremble at the edge. The wind pulses at her back, urging her forward and over. Urging her to follow.

She can hear it... _drip drip drip. _

She sees red mix with the ground. Muddy brown. He holds out a hand of red, the other clench tight around the handle... _drip drip drip_.

She stares down at it for a long moment. She watches how the red darkens underneath his nails and fills the crevice of knuckles... _drip drip drip_.

She can read his eyes, no longer stoic or as hard. His head tilts, questioning, beckoning.

She turns away.

* * *

She had spent her whole life idle, standing by and watching as things were done around her and to her.

She watched as her mother died and her father left for the continent. She watched Duncan court Cora even as she wished fiercely it was her hand he was determined to win. But she was frozen only capable of watching, and hated herself for doing nothing.

They followed her father to this land and journey across. Then as the red warriors attack with faces dipped in black and screams of war she is immobilized by terror. She stands by helpless and without. Without a way to stop it or fight it or make it disappear. All she could do was wait, wait to be saved or wait to die.

He saved her, this man with gentle hands and smiling eyes. Even as she is frozen in horror as death follows them to the fort and outside it, he is there. When she watches her father fall and break and all the blood that follows he is there to gather her off the ground and take her to the cool safety beneath. There in the cave, for a brief glorious moment, she stops waiting and takes hold of him and tries to forget. But she can't forget. And when they come with eager hands and faces smeared in smoke he is lost to the falls and there is no one to save her. The one who killed her father ties their hands and marches them away and she is helpless. She is helpless and she stands by waiting, always waiting.

And now she watches as he fights for her. She watches as he dies for her. She watches as he falls. And when the man with eyes filled with death reaches out his hand wet with red she knows that the time to act has come.

She is tired of doing nothing, of always waiting. And now, at last, she is finally ready. Ready to stop waiting and to _do _because this time it is he who waits for her. She turns to face sky and the edge of nothing and yet everything.

He waits for her below and above and within, all around. She is ready.

She leaps.

* * *

_There is sky all around her merging with earth. _

_There is the smell of sunshine. _

_There is the pounding of her heart and the blue black of his hair. _

_Then there is nothing. _

* * *

_Fin_

* * *

_Yes, there are two endings, three if you count italics. I wrote them at separate times and did my best to make them mesh into one for the story since I wanted to use them both._

_LOTM has completely reinvigorated my writing. I have some ideas for a multi-chaptered Alice/Uncas fic where Uncas lives. I would love to get a beta or even just someone willing to read my drafts and make suggestions. Anyone interested? If I do decide to pursue it I will post a teaser chapter first within the month to whet your appetite._

_Thank you everyone for all of your reviews. I needed the hypothetical pat on the back they give me. Hope the smut wasn't too heavy, this was like the second time I attempted to write such lemony goodness._

_This is your last chance to review and tell me how awesome you think this story is : )_


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